Slope
by Drown Me In Blue
Summary: Ichigo can't get enough of watching Byakuya like this, gets up insanely early just so he can sit at the foot of the bed with his sketchpad and attempt to capture even a faint shadow of the perfection that is embodied in this man.


**Pairing: **_Byakuya Kuchiki x Ichigo Kurosaki_

**Music:** Your Body is a Wonderland_, by John Mayer_

**Word count:** ~ 1500

**Rating:** M

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_**Prompt 30: **__Slope_

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The curve of his cheek is lovely, the slope of his nose beautiful. His hair falls like a river of molten midnight against the snowy white of the pillowcase, the skin of his hand—which rests in a loose curl beside his head—a few shades darker than the silk. The half-moon shadows of his eyelashes rest on his skin like delicate feathers of darkness, perfect and oddly serene.

Ichigo can't get enough of watching Byakuya like this, gets up insanely early just so he can sit at the foot of the bed with his sketchpad and attempt to capture even a faint shadow of the perfection that is embodied in this man. He looks down at his pad, then back at his lover, and smiles, tugging the sheet down just slightly so that it slides off, and his view is unimpeded.

The perfection isn't only in Byakuya's face, but the rest of him, as well. His chin is firm and delicately pointed, with only the faintest hint of a dimple. What stubble he does get grows in almost timidly, a bare shadow on his otherwise flawless skin. His neck is long and elegant, the Adam's apple a mere suggestion rather than a protuberance. Ichigo follows the line of it down to sharp collarbones and surprisingly broad shoulders, firm with muscle. For all that he's a real estate mogul and probably one of the richest men in the world, Byakuya is as fit as a martial artist, and just as muscular. He's not one to waste his time, when he does get a chance to work out.

Ichigo loves his shoulders, the width of them, the way they look in a suit, the way they hold so much of the tension that _is_ Byakuya. He'll run his hands over them, or grip them when they make love, loving the feel of tendons and sinews shifting under his fingertips, the play of light and shadow and the dip of the armpit. Byakuya's arms are like his shoulders, leanly muscled and strong, strong enough to pull Ichigo up off the ground the way Byakuya did when they first met, when Ichigo was nothing but a street punk getting his ass kicked by some punks who took offense at the color of his hair.

The graphite in his hand traces out the lines of the other hand, resting peacefully on Byakuya's chest—beautiful hands, elegant and long and finely boned, as though he should have been a painter or a surgeon or a piano player. Those fingers are rarely still, even though Byakuya is a calm man; they're always writing or typing or gesturing or doing _something_, as if all of a human's normal nervous energy has been condensed into Byakuya's fingertips.

The chest that his right hand rests on is also muscular, with a thin trail of hair the leads from between his nipples straight to his groin. The rest is smooth and firm, the skin stretched taut over sinews that Ichigo could run his hands or his tongue over for hours. His nipples are tempting copper disks that Ichigo marks on his paper with a quick flick of the graphite, wondering what Byakuya's reaction would be if Ichigo abandoned his sketching and slid up the older man's body to lick and bite at them, to kiss them with the barest edge of teeth like Ichigo knows he loves.

But it's too early. Ichigo suppresses those thoughts with a quick, deep breath and keeps sketching. His eyes slip past the shadowy dip between Byakuya's thighs, deciding it is too soon to face that temptation, and slide over long legs, lightly dusted with dark hair. Firm thighs, smooth knees, elegant calves, neat ankles, and beautiful feet. Even the toenails are perfect, as smooth as the inside of a seashell and a lovely pinkish-white that all but radiates vitality. Ichigo spends an inordinate amount of time capturing those feet, because they seem to speak for all the Byakuya is—strong, graceful, elegant, able to move swiftly when needed or not at all, to relax or stride. It's like finding a picture of someone that encapsulates everything about that person in one neat moment.

Only with Byakuya, it's feet.

Ichigo decides that he won't say anything about that to Byakuya, ever.

His eyes trace back up Byakuya's body to the place between his thighs, where his penis rests in a nest of black curls. It's flaccid right now, lying against his paler skin, but Ichigo can see it in his mind, erect and full, flushed with arousal, and has to take another quick breath to keep from moving forward. Byakuya is a little larger than average, a little thicker, straight and beautiful—even more so because it is _Ichigo_ he wants, _Ichigo _who gets to share his bed and his life.

The smell of coffee is filling the air now, the pot in the kitchen having come on automatically. Ichigo smiles and sets his sketchbook aside, doing as he pictured just moments ago and sliding up Byakuya's body. He drapes himself over the older man's legs and places a gentle kiss, then an easy lick against the soft penis, which quickly starts to take interest. Ichigo takes a breath and then slides his mouth over the hardening shaft, taking it in deep and laving it with his tongue. The precum tastes salty and bitter with an edge of _Byakuya_, and he swallows greedily, flicking his tongue against the soft head as he slides his mouth back up.

A soft sound makes him flick his eyes up to meet a heated, storm cloud-grey gaze. Byakuya's deep eyes are fixed on his face, his mouth, and there's a sharp hunger in them, a desire for _more_ that Byakuya rarely voices. Ichigo can't grin with his mouth so full, but he tries to put into his eyes all the heat he feels, all the want that's building between his legs, and rubs himself against the sheets with a quiet groan.

Byakuya groans in turn, his hips jerking up off the mattress and sending him sliding a little further down Ichigo's throat. Ichigo simply changes the angle and swallows more, going down until Byakuya's cock bumps the back of his throat and his nose is almost touching the black curls at the base of the shaft, Ichigo's throat working around it as he uses his tongue as much as he can. Byakuya is making sounds now, small, quiet noises that in another man would be a sign of complete abandon. He's near the edge, but not quite there, so Ichigo brings one of his hands up and cups the older man's balls in one hand, testing their weight as he squeezes gently.

A sound that is somewhere between a gasp and a groan tumbles from Byakuya's lips, and he arches under Ichigo's hand. Ichigo loves it, this simple, overwhelming power, this ability to take this strong, beautiful, perfect man and make him lose control—loves _him_, period. He swallows again, applies the barest edge of teeth, and then pulls back enough to swallow as Byakuya groans and comes down his throat. The sight of it, the feel of it, the taste and smell and overwhelming _emotion_ in this usually emotionless man is nearly enough to push Ichigo over the edge as well, and he groans as he lets Byakuya's shaft slip from his mouth, one hand sliding down to grip himself. A few quick tugs on the oversensitive organ and he's coming, as well, spilling over the sheets with a moan before he collapses against Byakuya's legs again.

There's a moment as they both recover, and then Byakuya reaches down and pulls Ichigo up to lie beside him, curled together with the younger man half-sprawled over his chest. They lie quietly for several minutes as they recover, and then Byakuya asks, a trace of amusement in his voice, "Is that your way of saying good morning?"

Ichigo smiles into those sharp, elegant collarbones, too relaxed to raise his head. "Weekend greeting. Haven't you noticed?" he asked dryly. "After two years of living together?"

"I have learned never to assume," Byakuya says, with that arrogant arch to his brows that Ichigo knows is actually his equivalent smile. "Especially where you are concerned, Kurosaki Ichigo."

Ichigo glances over to where his sketchbook lies on top of the bedside table, still open, and hums in contentment. That book is almost full. Soon, it will join the others like it in his closet, two years worth of mornings captured in loving detail. He kisses the slope of Byakuya's aristocratic nose, settles into the warmth of the body beside him, and closes his eyes.

_Two years_, he thinks with a small smile. _Not bad for a street punk artist and a cutthroat businessman._

_Not bad, indeed._


End file.
